The girl said her name was Betti Tamala. When the red dress came off in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror, Noonan decided she was a solid eight. It took less than a minute for him to realize that she had not only done this sort of thing before, she was extremely good at it.
* * *
—
Behind the mirror, Wu Chao of the Strategic Support Force—the cyber-, space, and electronic warfare arm of the People’s Liberation Army—stretched his neck from side to side, then pointed his chin toward the ceiling as if his collar was too tight. The four men who were packed into the tiny linen closet with all their video equipment filled it to capacity. The space was used for nothing other than this kind of lascivious work, and a dusty nastiness hung in the dank air like an illness.
The SSF consolidated most of the army’s intelligence capabilities, technical and otherwise. It was a relatively new organization, with all involved still squabbling for primacy as strata solidified. Wu had been an intelligence officer for almost two decades, coming up through the ranks working directly for PLA’s General Staff Department.
Wu Chao was a patriot. He’d not gone into intelligence work in order to leer through hidden peepholes at obscene Americans, but that was part of his job. Varied duties, his instructors at the School of International Relations had called such work. Wu was forty-three, with thinning black hair and square features that made him look like he’d been carved from a block of limestone. Those who knew him could be forgiven for assuming that he was a killer because of his chiseled look and hardened demeanor. He had, of course, taken lives. That was the way of the world. But he took no joy in it. His job was one of intelligence gathering, computer software, ones and zeros. If he had to kill, it meant something had gone horribly wrong. Kang, the man on the other side of the video camera, was an accomplished killer. Wu had known many assassins over the course of his career. Some he’d killed himself. With others, he’d shared a cup of tea. Almost all of them had some sort of redeeming quality—filial piety, patience with little children, a favorite charity.
As far as Wu could tell, the only thing redeeming about Kang was that he took good care of his teeth. Tall and fit but slightly disheveled in his dark suit, Kang stood at the far end of the little closet, looking the part of overworked businessman or harried police inspector as he stared, entranced, through the glass. Wu knew the cold reality. The man was a state-sponsored serial killer. He relished his work. If the government hadn’t found him, he would have been feeding his ugly habits on the backstreets of Shanghai. There was no doubt that Kang was intelligent, but intellect did not translate to conscience.
Conscience. Wu Chao’s belly writhed as if he’d swallowed a snake at the thought of the term. His job required horrific acts that were cruel but necessary. He had taken advantage of a widowed Japanese woman’s loneliness to infiltrate a radio station in Okinawa, befriended a Uighur child in Urumqi so that he might kill the boy’s terrorist father. He leveraged the secrets of other human beings until they’d finally broken and taken their own lives in shame. There seemed to be no bottom to the depths he would sink to for his country, but this clumsy scene on the other side of the glass was by far the most disgusting thing his eyes had ever witnessed. It was made even worse by the fact that he’d developed feelings for Betti Tamala. She knew too much, and would have to die.
Kang would be the one to kill her, so that, at least, was a mercy.
The two Indonesian men seated between Wu and Kang—agents he’d recruited from the local police force—tore their eyes off the glass in search of direction. Both were devout Muslims, but they were men, and the conflicting emotions surely caused them no small amount of grief. In Wu’s experience, when it came to battles of piety and the flesh—a nude woman won nine times out of ten. Wu took a long, slow breath, then held up three fingers. Three more minutes. They needed plenty of video to make certain the American cooperated.
The American proved to be an athletic, if bumbling lover, using all the real estate the room provided. Along with the video equipment behind the glass, pinhole cameras in the base of the floor lamp, an overhead fire alarm, and the frame of the floral painting at the foot of the bed, they were assured a near-constant view of the American’s face, along with the more damning angles.
Wu flicked his hand when he could stand it no longer, sending Kang and the Indonesian policemen through the hidden door that entered the adjoining bathroom. Wu remained behind the mirror, letting the video roll as the scene continued to unfold.
No one, occupied as the American was occupied, was ever prepared to look up and find three strangers staring down at him. Noonan screamed, first throwing a hand over his face like a distressed woman in a movie, then grabbing Betti and attempting to pull her in front of him like a human shield. She clawed him in the face, having none of it.
“Bravo,” Wu whispered to the glass. One of the policemen grabbed her by the arm and dragged her off the mattress, leaving the naked American cowering and flushed in the middle of the tangled sheets, both hands over his groin.
Wu watched as Betti snatched up her clothes and stomped into the bathroom. A moment later she was in the closet with him, her body buzzing with indignation.
“Did you plan to leave me there with him forever?” Her English was flawless—and spoken through a clenched jaw as she reached behind her to touch the neckline of her red dress.
“Forgive me,” Wu whispered. “My superiors must be assured we have enough video.”
Betti slumped. “I know this,” she said. “But I wish you could have used someone else.”
“As do I, my dear,” Wu said. “But there was no time. I had to have someone I could trust.”
She cocked her head slightly, raising a beautifully sculpted brow. “Why did you really wait so long?”
“I was deciding whether or not to kill him,” Wu said honestly.
“You are not?” Betti gave a disappointed pout that sent a chill through Wu’s veins. “It pierces my heart to think you would let a man live after witnessing him do that to me.”
She was beautiful, and tender, but there was a streak of madness in her. He’d noticed it from the beginning. It was one of the principal traits that attracted him to her.
He gave a noncommittal shrug. “We must be certain the software is genuine.”
She leaned forward until the tip of her nose almost touched the glass. “He is a fool to carry such technology with him when he travels.”
Wu resisted the urge to touch her thigh, keeping his eyes glued to the image of the weeping man on the other side of the glass.
“We believe he intends to sell it,” Wu said.
Betti’s exquisite brows shot skyward again, as if she’d never considered such a thing. “What if he has done so already?”
Wu shared those same concerns. Earlier that day, his men had lost track of the American for a half-hour. But he’d been the same sad sack when they had finally located him again, wandering the streets a few blocks away. A man who had completed the sale of such a valuable item would surely celebrate. Wu nodded toward the sobbing lump on the other side of the glass and adjusted the volume so they could better hear what was being said. Noonan pointed upward, toward his room, and assured the two Indonesian policemen that what they wanted was locked away in his safe. He would be happy to take them to it if they could just leave his wife and father-in-law out of this mess. No reason to get them involved. Pleeease. The man sounded like an over-revved motorbike—of the smallish variety.